


misericordia

by fides_sam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Praying Sam Winchester, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Season/Series 05, faith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 13:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13881888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fides_sam/pseuds/fides_sam
Summary: With the apocalypse looming, Sam turns to God for help.





	misericordia

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Seasons, a wonderful spn short stories anthology

             The winter wind blows cold and harsh. It sings bitterly of the approaching storm, howling in the small cluster of trees that stand outside the motel. The bare aspen trees shiver in the unkind wind. A single, dead leaf scuttles across the parking lot.

The setting sun hides behind a grey sky, which weeps icy tears. There are no vivid colors of sunset, just a greyness that will slowly deepen into the black of night.

Nothing is special about this town. It can be any small town in America with a shabby inn, a greasy diner, a gas station with long cracks in the cement.  Small trees with bare branches are planted along a road with multiple potholes and faded lines. A crow perches on the last tree observing the traffic with its black, glassy eyes.

            The motel sits on the edge of town. Dandelions grow from cracks in the parking lot. A soda machine hums outside the office door and the clerk loiters miserably beside it smoking. There is a small wooden flower box that holds anemones and weeds that are brown and dead.

            It is a small, simple, dirty place. The room is threadbare. The walls painted a pale blue. The beds have scratchy, worn sheets and tan comforters dotted with cigarette burns. The carpet’s original color is lost beneath years upon years of stains. On the night stand is a clock with the wrong time and a lamp with an extinguished bulb.  On the wall hangs a painting of a pelican with wings open wide.

The peeling door squeaks open.  And with the rush of cold wind, Sam walks in. He turns and firmly shuts out the foul weather before he shrugs off his damp coat. Dropping it onto the back of a wobbly chair, he pushes his damp hair out of his face.

Things are not going well. This is it. The apocalypse is here. And it seems that no matter what he and Dean attempt, there was no stopping the oncoming storm. They have taken a break to deal with an ordinary salt and burn. Some spirit stuck in an old aviary. Bones mixed with peacock feathers in a cypress coffin.

Dean had gone on to the local bar to rinse the taste of ash from his mouth and attempt to forget about the impending doom. Sam chose to return to their room, claiming to be tired and wanting nothing more than a hot shower and sleep.

The room is silent. Save for the icy rain hitting the window and the heater, which whirrs and clinks and sputters. It has been producing a lot of noise and very little heat since they checked in. And now it sounds worse. With a soft clunk, it gives up the ghost. Giving it a glance of annoyance, Sam plods into the bathroom. He showers quickly, the tepid water doing little to ease the soreness in his muscles.

He emerges from the bathroom into the unpleasantly cold room. He sinks onto his bed with a sigh, running his hand through his wet hair. Then he rolls more fully onto the mattress. Though exhausted, Sam finds he can’t sleep. Thoughts of the apocalypse weigh on him like an anchor pulling him down into deep, dark waters.  

He can’t fix this. Not alone. Dean is right. He is weak. And he can’t trust himself, especially after what happened with Famine. But deep within he believes there has to be a way. And this faith glows softly within him, like a small candle.

He sits up on the uncomfortable bed and raises his eyes to the stained ceiling. He clears his throat.

 “God, it’s me. I know it’s been a while but… um…..”

With a deep breath, he continues.

 “Things have gotten really bad and I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know where to even begin. But this is my mess. I…It’s my fault. I let him loose and I have to put him back.”

“It’s just…I am afraid I can’t. What if I am too weak? I mean… I know I am weak. I listened to Ruby. Fell for her lies. And I thought I learned. But with Famine, I failed. Again. I gave in to the blood. Again.”

“I’m not asking for you to fix my mistake. Just for a little help. This world, all of these lives are in danger because of me.”

“Please God, don’t let the world suffer for what I have done. And…and if I have to die then, I am ok with that. But please don’t let others suffer for what I have done. Don’t let Dean suffer for what I have done.”

He pauses and swallows tightly.

 “I am willing to do what it takes. No matter what. I refuse to make the wrong choice again.”

“So, if you can hear me, please…just please help”

 

He falls silent. The winter storm still blows outside his window. He lets loose a held breath. Laying his head upon the flat pillow, he buries himself beneath the thin blankets and attempts to sleep. And weary in both body and soul, he does.

The heater sputters back on. The grimy curtains sway gently in the warm air.

When he sleeps, Lucifer does not visit him. Sam dreams instead of a cemetery with roses growing from ashes. Looking up he sees a pelican, its breast bloody, the color of pomegranate, with the setting sun behind it. The pelican’s wings flash, blindingly white. The sun shrinks smaller and smaller until diminished. And suddenly he is falling, falling.

 Outside his curtained window, the rain has passed and the wind has calmed. Winter stars, like many small candles, shine brightly in the cold, clear sky.

 

 


End file.
